“Well, you
are a
good un!” exclaimed he, at length, taking up his weapon, and proceeding towards the house. “Damme, but the lad has some spunk in him too! Curse me, if ever I saw a nobler little scoundrel than that! He’s beyond petticoat government already:—by G-, he defies mother, granny, governess, and all! Ha, ha, ha! Never mind, Tom, I’ll get you another brood to-morrow.”
“If you do, Mr. Robson, I shall kill them too,” said I.
“Humph!” replied he, and having honoured me with a broad stare, which, contrary to his expectations, I sustained without flinching, he turned away with an air of supreme contempt, and stalked into the house.
Tom next went to tell his mamma. It was not her way to say much on any subject; but, when she next saw me, her aspect and demeanour were doubly dark and chill.
After some casual remark about the weather, she observed—
“I am sorry, Miss Grey, you should think it necessary to interfere with Master Bloomfield’s amusements; he was very much distressed about your destroying the birds.”
“When Master Bloomfield’s amusements consist in injuring sentient creatures,” I answered, “I think it my duty to interfere.”
“You seemed to have forgotten,” said she, calmly, “that the creatures were all created for our convenience.”
I thought that doctrine admitted some doubt, but merely replied—
“If they were, we have no right to torment them for our amusement.”
“I think,” said she, “a child’s amusement is scarcely to be weighed against the welfare of a soulless brute.”
“But, for the child’s own sake, it ought not to be encouraged to have such amusements,” answered I, as meekly as I could, to make up for such unusual pertinacity.
“Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy. ”
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“Oh, of course! but that refers to our conduct towards each other.”
“The merciful man shezus mercy to his beast,
”
s
I ventured to add.
“I think
you
have not shewn much mercy,” replied she, with a short, bitter laugh; “killing the poor birds by wholesale, in that shocking manner, and putting the dear boy to such misery, for a mere whim!”
I judged it prudent to say no more.
This was the nearest approach to a quarrel I ever had with Mrs. Bloomfield, as well as the greatest number of words I ever exchanged with her at one time, since the day of my first arrival.
But Mr. Robson and old Mrs. Bloomfield were not the only guests whose coming to Wellwood House annoyed me; every visiter disturbed me, more or less, not so much, because they neglected me, (though I did feel their conduct strange and disagreeable in that respect) as because I found it so impossible to keep my pupils away from them, as I was repeatedly desired to do: Tom must talk to them, and Mary Ann must be noticed by them. Neither the one nor the other knew what it was to feel any degree of shame-facedness, or even common modesty. They would indecently and clamorously interrupt the conversation of their elders, tease them with the most impertinent questions, roughly collar the gentlemen, climb their knees uninvited, hang about their shoulders, or rifle their pockets, pull the ladies’ gowns, disorder their hair, tumble their collars, and importunately beg for their trinkets.
Mrs. Bloomfield had the sense to be shocked and annoyed at all this, but she had not sense to prevent it. She expected me to prevent it;—and how could I—when the guests, with their fine clothes and new faces, continually flattered and indulged them out of complaisance to their parents—how could
I
with my homely garments, every-day face, and honest words, draw them away? I strained every nerve to do so;—by striving to amuse them, I endeavoured to attract them to my side, by the exertion of such authority as I possessed, and by such severity as I dared to use, I tried to deter them from tormenting the guests; and by reproaching their unmannerly conduct, to make them ashamed to repeat it. But they knew no shame—they scorned authority which had no terrors to back it, and as for kindness and affection, either they had no hearts, or such as they had were so strongly guarded, and so well concealed, that I, with all my efforts had not yet discovered how to reach them.
But soon my trials in this quarter came to a close—sooner than I either expected or desired; for one sweet evening towards the close of May, as I was rejoicing in the near approach of the holidays, and congratulating myself upon having made some progress with my pupils—as far as their learning went at least, for I
had
instilled
something
into their heads, and I had at length, brought them to be a little—a very little—more rational about getting their lessons done in time to leave some space for recreation, instead of tormenting themselves and me all day long to no purpose, Mrs. Bloomfield sent for me, and calmly told me that after Midsummer my services would be no longer required. She assured me that my character and general conduct were unexceptionable; but the children had made so little improvement since my arrival, that Mr. Bloomfield and she felt it their duty to seek some other mode of instruction. Though superior to most children of their years in abilities, they were decidedly behind them in attainments, their manners were uncultivated, and their tempers unruly. And this she attributed to a want of sufficient firmness, and diligent, persevering care on my part.
Unshaken firmness, devoted diligence, unwearied perseverance, unceasing care, were the very qualifications on which I had secretly prided myself, and by which I had hoped in time, to overcome all difficulties, and obtain success at last. I wished to say something in my own justification, but in attempting to speak, I felt my voice falter, and rather than testify any emotion, or suffer the tears to overflow, that were already gathering in my eyes, I chose to keep silence, and bear all, like a self-convicted culprit.
Thus was I dismissed, and thus I sought my home. Alas! what would they think of me? unable, after all my boasting to keep my place, even for a single year, as governess to three small children, whose mother was asserted, by my own aunt, to be a “very nice woman.” Having been thus weighed in the balance, and found wanting,
t
I need not hope they would be willing to try me again. And this was an unwelcome thought, for vexed, harassed, disappointed as I had been, and greatly as I had learnt to love and value my home, I was not yet weary of adventure, nor willing to relax my efforts. I knew all parents were not like Mr. and Mrs. Bloomfield, and I was certain all children were not like theirs. The next family must be different, and any change must be for the better. I had been seasoned by adversity, and tutored by experience, and I longed to redeem my lost honour in the eyes of those whose opinion was more than that of all the world to me.
CHAPTER VI
The Parsonage Again
F
or a few months I remained peaceably at home, in the quiet enjoyment of liberty and rest, and genuine friend ship, from all of which I had fasted so long, and in the earnest prosecution of my studies to recover what I had lost during my stay at Wellwood House, and to lay in new stores for future use.
My father’s health was still very infirm, but not materially worse than when I last saw him, and I was glad I had it in my power to cheer him by my return, and to amuse him with singing his favourite songs.
No one triumphed over my failure, or said I had better have taken his or her advice, and quietly stayed at home. All were glad to have me back again, and lavished more kindness than ever upon me, to make up for the sufferings I had undergone; but not one would touch a shilling of what I had so cheerfully earned and so carefully saved, in the hope of sharing it with them. By dint of pinching here, and scraping there, our debts, already were nearly paid. Mary had had good success with her drawings, but our father had insisted upon
her
likewise keeping all the produce of her industry to herself. All we could spare from the supply of our humble wardrobe, and our little casual expenses, he directed us to put into the savings’ bank, saying we knew not how soon we might be dependant on that alone for support, for he felt he had not long to be with us, and what would become of our mother and us when he was gone, God only knew.
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Dear papa! if he had troubled himself less about the afflictions that threatened us in case of his death, I am convinced that dreaded event would not have taken place so soon. My mother would never suffer him to ponder the subject if she could help it.
“Oh Richard!” exclaimed she, on one occasion, “if you would but dismiss such gloomy subjects from your mind, you would live as long as any of us—at least you would live to see the girls married, and yourself a happy grandfather with a canty old dame
u
for your companion.”
My mother laughed, and so did my father, but his laugh soon perished in a dreary sigh.
“Them married—poor penniless things!” said he, “who will take them I wonder!”
“Why nobody shall, that isn’t thankful for them.—Wasn’t I penniless when you took me? and you
pretended,
at least, to be vastly pleased with your acquisition.—But it’s no matter whether they get married or not: we can devise a thousand honest ways of making a livelihood; and I wonder Richard, you can think of bothering your head about our
poverty
in case of your death, as if
that
would be anything compared with the calamity of losing you—an affliction that, you well know, would swallow up all others, and which you ought to do your utmost to preserve us from; and there is nothing like a cheerful mind for keeping the body in health.”
“I know, Alice, it is wrong to keep repining as I do, but I cannot help it; you must bear with me.”
“I
won ’t
bear with you, if I can alter you!” replied my mother: but the harshness of her words was outdone by the earnest affection of her tone and pleasant smile that made my father smile again, less sadly, and less transiently than was his wont.
“Mamma,” said I, as soon as I could find an opportunity of speaking with her alone, “my money is but little, and cannot last long; if I could increase it, it would lessen papa’s anxiety on one subject at least. I cannot draw like Mary, and so the best thing I could do would be to look out for another situation.”
“And so you would actually try again, Agnes!”
“Decidedly, I would.”
“Why my dear, I should have thought you had had enough of it.”
“I know,” said I, “everybody is not like Mr. and Mrs. Bloomfield—”
“Some are worse,” interrupted my mother.
“But not many I think,” replied I, “and I’m sure all children are not like theirs; for I and Mary were not; we always did as you bid us, didn’t we?”
“Generally: but then, I did not spoil you; and you were not perfect angels after all: Mary had a fund of quiet obstinacy, and you were somewhat faulty in regard to temper; but you were very good children on the whole.”
“I know I was sulky sometimes, and I should have been glad to see these children sulky sometimes too; for then I could have understood them; but they never were; for they could not be offended, nor hurt, nor ashamed: they could not be unhappy in any way, except when they were in a passion.”
“Well, if they
could
not, it was not their fault; you cannot expect stone to be as pliable as clay.”
“No, but still, it is very unpleasant to live with such unimpressible, incomprehensible creatures. You cannot love them, and if you could, your love would be utterly thrown away; they could neither return it, nor value, nor understand it.—But however, even if I should stumble on such a family again, which is quite unlikely, I have all this experience to begin with, and I should manage better another time; and the end and aim of this preamble is, let me try again.”
“Well, my girl, you are not easily discouraged, I see—I am glad of that—But, let me tell you, you are a good deal paler and thinner than when you first left home, and we cannot have you undermining your health to hoard up money either for yourself or others.”
“Mary tells me I am changed too; and I don’t much wonder at it, for I was in a constant state of agitation and anxiety all day long; but next time I am determined to take things coolly.”
After some further discussion, my mother promised once more to assist me, provided I would wait and be patient; and I left her to broach the matter to my father, when, and how, she deemed it most advisable, never doubting her ability to obtain his consent.
Meantime, I searched, with great interest, the advertising columns of the newspapers, and wrote answers to every “Wanted a Governess,” that appeared at all eligible; but all my letters, as well as the replies, when I got any, were dutifully shewn to my mother; and she, to my chagrin, made me reject the situations one after another—These were low people, these were too exacting in their demands, and these too niggeredly in their remunerations.
“Your talents are not such as every poor clergyman’s daughter possesses, Agnes,” she would say, “and you must not throw them away. Remember, you promised to be patient—there is no need of hurry—you have plenty of time before you, and may have many chances yet.”
At length, she advised me to put an advertisement, myself, in the paper, stating my qualifications, &c.
“Music, Singing, Drawing, French, Latin, and German,” said she, “are no mean assemblage; many will be glad to have so much in one instructor; and this time, you shall try your fortune in a somewhat higher family—in that of some genuine, thorough-bred gentleman, for such are far more likely to treat you with proper respect and consideration, than those purse-proud tradespeople, and arrogant upstarts. I have known several among the higher ranks, who treated their governesses quite as one of the family; though some, I allow, are as insolent and exacting as any one else can be; for there are bad and good in all classes.”
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